by Robert White
The powers that be decided that the MRF had reached the end of its useful life and established a highly trained undercover, plain-clothes surveillance unit in its place.
14 Intelligence Company, or the Det, was born. Its personnel were selected from all parts of the armed forces and were trained by a specially set-up wing of 22 SAS. Additionally, SAS officers formed the unit’s command.
Much to Harry’s concern, Jamie and Dick had been whisked away by the man from MI5 in the middle of the night. And other than one quick call in late February, he hadn’t heard from his son in five months.
Harry was adamant, something wasn’t right.
I was in no position to know any different or offer solace to my friend. My contact with the Secret Service was limited to watching Tinker Taylor Soldier Spy on the box. All the same, if it had been my blood, I’d have been worried too.
I was also very concerned about what Harry had to say about Frankie Verdi.
Apparently, on the boy’s first night home, they went to the opening of a new disco in town called Toast, where they ran into Jamie’s ex, Laurie Holland.
Now, I’d known about The Three Dog’s involvement in the club quite early. Frankie’d even had the nerve to apply for the licence in his own name. Eventually, even he conceded that he would never pass the fit-and-proper-person criteria and Laurie had taken the helm.
To the casual observer, Toast was just another 1980s yuppie adventure. I knew differently.
On their way home from the club, the marines were picked up by a guy purporting to be a taxi driver. The boys sussed out the fake driver and managed to escape from the car. Harry told me he suspected they had dished out some serious summary justice, before one Joseph Francis Madden, had given up the name of Frankie Verdi, and how he’d been given the job of discovering Harry’s address.
I’d known Joe Madden since he was a knee-high. I couldn’t help but give a wry smile when I found out he’d had a thump or three. I hadn’t heard his name since I’d been a Jack on CID at Preston, but I made a note to make some further inquiries about young Joe on my return to work.
He was a connection to Verdi and that was just what I was looking for.
The fact that Verdi was looking for Harry’s address really concerned me, and I offered to speak to the local station. Harry refused gracefully, explaining that you never really knew who may be in a gangster’s pocket.
Least said, soonest mended.
* * *
By 1st August, I had settled into my role as DI and had quite a file on The Three Dogs. I pieced together all the intelligence that had been gathered by the force over the last three years. Associates, girlfriends, drinking establishments, vehicles, houses, business ventures, anything and everything that may lead me in the right direction.
I ensured that every car and every associate was flagged on PNC. I needed more detail, and this was the best way to achieve my goal.
My team got on with just about everything else, whilst I was left alone to brood and feed my obsession.
Part of my role was to contact financial establishments and obtain copies of the bank accounts and financial transactions of known drug dealers, particularly international importers. This was far from straightforward, offshore banks being particularly unhelpful. As Verdi, Williams and Thompson had just one minor possession conviction between them, I could hardly tag them as international drug smugglers, and so, for the time being, this avenue was a non-starter.
Despite this, I did some sums of my own.
I looked at the average expenditure involved in the purchase and refurb of Toast; the quantity of cash needed to buy the goodwill and fixtures and fittings of Frankie’s second, rather plush Italian eatery in Broughton; what Eddie Williams Car Sales would have paid to boast Sierra Cosworths, Audi Quattros and Astra GTEs on its new, modern forecourt; and how Tony Thompson’s building firm had managed the purchase of a plot of land in Fulwood, large enough for six detached properties.
An accountant, I was not, but I estimated that The Three Dogs would have needed an income of one thousand pounds a week each, every week for the last two and a half years to fund their set-up costs.
Not bad eh?
To say people were reluctant to come forward with any information on Verdi and his cronies, was an understatement. People still talked, and people still listened, but I needed facts.
My starting point was what I myself knew.
I knew that the Dogs had taken control of Fat Les’ cannabis dealing business after the attack on his brother in the Army and Navy pub back in 1978.
That single ice cream van had become a well-known ice cream business around the town.
I believed that the business unit on Plungington and the six vans that scurried around the council estates of Preston were an integral part of the crew’s funding.
After much desk beating, I finally persuaded my DCI to fund a five-day surveillance on the 3D Ice unit and their vans, beginning Monday 15th August 1983.
CHAPTER NINE
13th August 1983
Colin Whittle had worked as an intelligence collator at Lancashire’s Regional Drug Squad for almost three years. It was a very important role that had once been taken by a police officer. But in the days of wage restraint, some posts had been given to civilian employees to lower costs.
He was a married man, and a good Catholic, with six children. Due to his ever-expanding family, his wife Maureen had insisted they move, as their three-bed semi was too cramped. She was correct, of course, she always was, and his two eldest girls constantly reminded Colin that they were well past sharing a bedroom.
Hence, he now had a crippling mortgage to go with his loans and credit cards.
Maureen Whittle had also taken a shine to the thought of a holiday abroad in October. Their regular one-week jaunt to a caravan in Tenby was as equally unsuitable as their old home. After all, the Jameson’s at number seventeen were going to Tenerife, and now Maureen was dreaming of a villa in Torremolinos. As a deft reminder, the brochures were scattered across the living room, when Colin had left for work that morning.
He felt sick.
Colin pulled his battered Escort to the kerb, took out his wallet and strode to the cash-point.
The machine asked for his PIN, and then what he wanted to do next. Colin pushed the button to check his balance.
With three days to payday his account held eleven pence. He was broke.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, before pulling his card and stomping back to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat and pondered the fuel gauge.
Red.
“Fuck,” he repeated.
Colin dropped his head. He wasn’t a bad person, it was just that he wasn’t good with money; well actually, his wife Maureen wasn’t good with money. And now, after all her bleating about foreign holidays, the kids would be looking forward to Spain, to some sun on their backs. He hated himself for what he was about to do. But what choice did he have?
He fumbled in his pockets and pulled out shrapnel, then started his car and drove to the nearest phone box.
* * *
Frankie sat at the old family table. Since the death of his father Mario, his mother had taken to visiting her sister in Bologna. During these long visits, Frankie used the house for meetings, the way The Three Dogs had done in the early days.
He felt safe in the small parlour, the familiar smells, the tablecloth, the teapot all banded together to calm him. And today of all days he needed to be calm.
Tony sat with his headphones on. He’d just bought the latest Walkman DD and was listening to New Order.
Frankie left him to it as he waited for Eddie to arrive. He checked his Rolex.
Any minute now.
On the stroke of two p.m., Eddie padded into the room. He pulled out Tony’s earphones as he sat. “Switch that shit off Tone, fuck m
e, can’t you listen to some decent stuff?”
Tony smiled. He knew Eddie was just jibing him. “Better than that old-fashioned soul you still listen to… innit Frank?”
Verdi poured the tea into green cups.
“We’re not here to talk about music boys… We have a problem.”
Eddie stirred sugar into his tea. “What kind of problem Frank? It’s not them niggers again is it?”
Frankie shook his head. “Don’t talk like that Eddie; you know I don’t like it.”
Eddie rolled his eyes, “Sorry Frank.”
Verdi took a gulp of tea. “It’s the cops; they’re onto the 3D Ice vans. They’re starting surveillance soon… Monday… for a week.”
Tony screwed up his face. “What’s surveillance?”
“The coppers are going to be watching the vans,” said Eddie.
“Oh… right,” mumbled Thompson. “Why’s that then?”
Frankie shrugged. “’Cos someone somewhere has been talkin’ I reckon. Some low-life grass bastard has tipped ’em off.”
“Well let’s sort ’em out,” said Tony. “Like we did with Fat Les.”
Eddie shook his head. “It’s a bit late for that now Tony. More important, we need to sort out where we’re gonna trade from. The vans are fucked.”
Frankie nodded. “True, the vans are finished. Even after the cops stop snooping, they’ll still have them in their sights. The first time one gets turned over, we’ll have to sell up anyway.”
Eddie’s bright blue eyes were flashing. His temper was up. This was going to cost the business, big time. “How’d you know about this Frank? How good is the tip-off?”
“The best… straight from the horse’s mouth.”
Eddie sat back. “You got a copper in your pocket Frank? When did this happen?”
“Not a copper, but as good as; he’s a civilian what works with ’em; gathers all the information that comes in. He’s what they call a collator… Anyway, he called me today; gave me the good news. It cost a few quid like, but he’s worth keeping sweet… he’s in the Drug Squad office see?”
Eddie rubbed his face with his palms, “This is not fuckin’ good guys. We got the new product arriving from Liverpool at the end of the month; a big fuckin’ investment. I worked fuckin’ hard to get that deal.”
Frankie held up an arm. “I know you did Eddie, and we will still go ahead, don’t flap. The fact is, we were never going to sell the cocaine from the vans. No fucker on Grange or Brookfield can afford eighty quid a gram. The vans were always going to service the lower end of the market; the weed and the whizz. The club, and a select few dealers will move the coke; that VIP room will be a goldmine. The question is, how do we keep our other markets open without the vans?”
Tony Thompson played with the buttons on his Walkman. “Taxis…” he said, “…use taxis… No one bothers them, do they? We can even deliver, just buy a cab business.”
There was silence in the room for a moment as the other two absorbed Tony’s words.
Suddenly Eddie grabbed Tony around the neck and knuckled the top of his head. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re thick again Tone… that’s a fuckin’ brilliant idea!”
Frankie poured more tea.
He wasn’t so sure.
* * *
Tony Thompson sauntered across Preston’s flag market in the warm August sunshine.
He’d driven his van from the house on Moor Nook, into town and visited Action Records on Church Street.
Tony had bought himself a few new cassettes for his Walkman. Spandau Ballet, Paul Young and KC and the Sunshine Band were stuffed in a bag together with an Al Pacino T-shirt.
He’d slipped in the Spandau the moment he left the shop and Gold blasted in his ears as he passed the Cenotaph toward his favourite clothes shop, Duncan’s.
He was about to step inside when he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. Pulling out his headphones, he turned.
Cheryl Greenwood was wearing white pedal pushers and bright smile. William was plastering himself with ice cream in his buggy.
“Hi-ya Tone,” she chirped. “How’s tricks?”
“Hey, Cheryl… yeah good… I’m good.”
He knelt to get a closer look at William. The boy’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “And how are you little fella, enjoying your cornet eh?”
Cheryl looked on, bursting with parental pride. “He’s gettin’ big now Tone; he’s into everything he is.”
Tony ruffled the tot’s hair. “He’s a fine boy sure enough Chez.”
Tony stood and looked Cheryl up and down. “Not looking too shabby yourself girl.”
Cheryl blushed. “I suppose I were a bit of a mess last time I saw you eh?” She tapped her tummy. “Finally back to my fighting weight too.”
Tony eyed her appreciatively. “Aye you’re looking tidy Chez, I’ll say that.”
For a moment, an awkward silence slipped between them as they both thought of Eddie.
Cheryl broke it.
“I’m glad I never bothered tellin’ Eddie about William… thought it were best all considered.”
Tony nodded. “I never said anythin’ to him Chez… told you I wouldn’t eh?”
She smiled.
“Thanks Tone, that cash you slipped me really helped me out.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together, “And I got a part-time job now. Only in the Bull and Royal, three afternoons like, but it’s all right money.”
“So, you’re managing then?”
“Getting by, yeah.”
“Still in Westmorland?”
Cheryl nodded and turned down the corners of her mouth. “Yeah, bloody shithole it is, no place for a kid, but the council won’t move us.” She looked into Tony’s face and her smile returned. “What about you Tone, you still in that little flat at the club?”
Tony couldn’t help but smile back.
“Not for much longer love. I’ve been building myself a house up Fulwood, be finished for Christmas.”
Cheryl was in awe. “Your own house? Bloody hell Tone, you done well for yourself mate, I’m so pleased for you.”
Tony puffed out his chest. His mum was always telling him how clever he was and how well he had done, but Frankie and Eddie never mentioned his business or how much money he put in the pot from his building work.
“I’ll show you if you like,” he blurted.
Cheryl pursed her lips and gestured toward two heavy-looking bags balanced in the handles of William’s buggy. “Aw Tone I’d love to, but I’ve got all me shopping here an’ I’ve no car seat for William like so…”
Tony lifted the two plastic carriers from the pram. “I’ll sort these, an’ we’ll nip to Halfords in the precinct and get Billy a chair, he’ll need one anyway.”
Cheryl knocked the brake off the pram with her foot and followed Tony as he strode toward St George’s centre.
“Tone… erm… look mate I didn’t mean for you to be buyin’ a chair for him.”
“No worries,” said Tony over his shoulder.
Cheryl lengthened her stride and made it alongside him. “An’ it’s William,” she said. “Not Billy… William.”
* * *
With William safely ensconced in his new seat, Tony drove mother and child toward his development of six detached houses, situated in Sharoe Green. It was a prime location, almost equidistant between Preston’s two major hospitals, within a mile of the motorway network, and the location of some of the town’s most desirable properties.
Tony had bought the land cheap from a local developer, Brooks and Sons, who had fallen on hard times after overextending themselves with the bank. The Brooks family were not the only victims of the Thatcher “revolution”.
1983 saw over three million workers on the dole and interest rates at fifteen per cent.
Tim
es in the building trade were hard, but Tony knew that wasn’t the case down south, and his mum always said what happened in London one year, would happen in Preston the next.
So far, the old girl had been spot on.
Interest rates didn’t matter to Tony of course. He didn’t even have a mortgage. And the fact that there were plenty of lads out of work, only too willing to work cash in hand, was good news for the entrepreneurial young man.
As he pulled his van into the semi-circle of partly constructed houses, Cheryl let out a gasp.
“Oh, my word Tone. Is this all yours?”
He nodded. “Kinda, yeah. I suppose it is. I share my profits with the lads o’course.”
Cheryl looked puzzled. She may have grown up in a council flat, never travelled further than Blackpool, and had certainly never been inside a house as big as any that she saw this day, but she was no fool either.
She knew all about Tony’s history, how people called him “slow” or worse behind his back and couldn’t help but feel a twinge of concern at the revelation that he would give the lion’s share of his hard-earned profits away.
“You don’t just give Eddie and Frankie your cash do you Tone?”
Thompson turned, his face suddenly menacing, threatening. “We all put in Cheryl… all of us, Frankie and Eddie have watched out for me all my life. Whenever I was in trouble, they always knew what to do. I wouldn’t have nothin’ if it weren’t for Frankie and Eddie… So remember, it’s not your business, and don’t ever talk that way again… not ever.”
William stirred in his seat, something primal, something subconscious, telling him the atmosphere around him had turned dangerous and dark.
Cheryl locked eyes with the burly young man, her tone conciliatory. “Okay, mate. You’re right, it isn’t. It’s none of my business. It’s just you… well you looked out for me and William. I thought we was mates like, that’s all.”